


Text for Sex

by MoonlighTie



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically everything is 'un', But not that high school, I'm Sorry, M/M, Paul is tense, Paul talks to his sunglasses, Translation, Unbeta-ed again, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, just a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlighTie/pseuds/MoonlighTie
Summary: George and Paul have been friends since the first day of highschool, but the latter feels way more than that. The Prom Day, before George travels away, is his last chance to tell him how he feels and to make him stay at home. The heartfelt announcement, tho, ends with a catastrophe, and Paul is left utterly embarrassed.His goal for summer is to forget his childish love, and he chooses the easiest way to do this. Sex.The one and only problem with this is that he couldn’t be any more virginer.And there’s only one person who can help him with this.





	Text for Sex

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Text for Sex](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/285846) by MoonlighTie. 



> This is a translation of MoonlighTie's hungarian fic under the same title!  
> Please, check out her blog, because it looks amazing (and has great fics, that you probably can't understand.)  
> http://sex-and-shout.blogspot.hu

Maybe the wind blows from another way, or the Sun shines too strongly, but Paul wakes up himself today, for a change. His phone's alarm doesn't ring, and Mr. McCartney is not banging on his door either. The deafening silence rules the whole house.  
Nothing else.  
Paulie lazily rolls onto his side, and closes his eyes.  
– Just five more minutes – he whispers. He tries to force himself back to sleep, to dreaming. To a reality, where he doesn't have to go to school, nor has to meet George. Albeit if only it was for the meeting, he'd gladly get up. He'd start getting ready, washing his hair, cleaning his face, maybe straightening his mane, if needed.  
But no, it's not just another day. Today is his last chance to confess his love for George.  
His phone suddenly starts to buzz, and it screams _Stressed Out_ by _Twenty One Pilots_ from the top of its nonexistent lungs.  
If Paul wants to be honest, he'd say he hates this song, but it was George who chose it for alarming, so he didn't had the heart to switch it down. In fact, everything George touches is perfect where he put it, and Paul doesn't want to move it for even an inch. He hates himself for this.  
Paul angrily reches out for his iPhone, to quickly turn the alarm off.  
– This is your fault, you hear me? – he looks contemptuously at the phone. – Aww, then why do i love you so much? – his voice weakens. – I'm too sensitive – he whispers. Even his pointless words are spoken for only him. Paul talks too much to himself.  
He leans back, and pulls the covers on his face. The only thought in his head is that this day has to end, the sooner the better.  
His ever-changing way of thinking is cut in half by his phone, again. He's got a message. He slowly reaches for the iPhone, and as he sees its screen, he smiles. 

**FuckGeo:** finally, this is the last day for reals  
**FuckGeo:** we'll kick mrs higgies in the face, right? 

Paul laughs to himself, but doesn't reply. This silly message gives him enough strength to sit up. He couldn't do otherwise, to be honest, because Mike runs into his room, yelling:  
– You still have school, doooork! – Paul jumps out of his nest, and quickly runs to the door.  
– Shut up, snotty! – he screams, and Mike, who's facing him, slowly looks down at his pants, and snickers.  
– Don't come near me with that! – he coughs. He can barely breathe because of the wheezing. Paul doesn't even dare to look at his trousers; there isn't a possible way to have a more visible bulge than the one he has right now.  
– Crap! – he groans, and quickly shuts his door, and turns the key in the lock, too. This is the third morning in this week, when he #wokeuplikethis. Paul shakes his head, and swiftly slides back in his bed, to his phone. 

**PrincePol:** rather youd tell her to give you a head  
**FuckGeo:** srsly. we hafta get you a girl  
**FuckGeo:** quick! this is a health issue now!  
**PrincePol:** :"D it is 

Paul laughs, again. He takes a deep breath, and tosses his phone away. He has still a lot of time to talk to George. Now, he has to do something else. 

**************************************************************************************************************************************

Mr. McCartney sits by the table, and he reads the news today, oh boy. He was always the precise man, and he planned out everything long before he ought to. Maybe this quality of his saved the whole family, or the two boys.  
The house, by the way, is quite poor, but somehow roomy. Maybe there's no pool in the garden, and the walls aren't made of glass, either, but still, there's a plasma TV hanging in the living room. Actually, it's always turned on, (like Paul,) even if it's only Mike who's there, in his room, upstairs. One could say that if someone was at home, they told it the world with some silly commercial playing on the TV.  
The kitchen, however, is so tiny, that the three barely fit in there at once, and that's why Mr. McCartney never could make is sons do chores. This, of course, didn't mean that they could chill on their laptop all day. 

Mr. McCartney is a passionate gardener. This fact in itself scares the two boys out of their minds. This is why they try to spend the possibly least time in the house, to get free, to be somewhere else. In the morning, however, they try to get to the table in time, so they won't miss the punctually measured breakfast, what never was more than it must be.  
But today, Mike goes down much earlier than his brother, and as he looks at Paul by the table, he can barely contain his laughter.  
Paul just cornfully grimaces at him, and sits down with a sigh. He sighs a lot. In his plate, there's his precisely made scrambled eggs, and top of it is a heart drawn by Mike with ketchup.  
– Very funny – Paul says sarcastically, and Mike starts to laugh loudly. At this, even Mr. McCartney looks up from behind the news, then looks at Paul's plate, and just asks:  
– Did i miss something?  
Mike wouldn't miss this opportunity, so he answers loudly.  
– This is the last day when Paul will see George – he splutters. – He has to tell him today – Mike continues quietly now, and their dad's eyebrows are raised up high.  
– Oh! – he breathes.  
In this moment, Paul regrets for a life that he told his dad how he feels about George. He leans on the table, devastated. He could beat up his past self for asking help from Mr. McCartney.  
– Look, son – the old man starts, and Paul's already holding his face.  
– Dad, don't! – he whispers.  
– Dad, do too! It's a totally natural thing, when a man and a woman... I mean two men... – Jim's voice cracks, and Mike's giggling again. He almost falls down from his chair.  
– Thank you for the breakfast! – he hits the table, and as a broken-winged bird, he flies away from the table, as quick as he can. The last thing he hears is his dad, calling for him, and then scolding Mike.  
He walks up on the stairs, into his room.  
On the door's right side is the bed, on the left side is a wardrobe, his table, and in front of it is a treadmill. But now, somehow, the room he sees everyday looks different in a way, as if it's blurred or something.  
Paulie drops down on his bed, and reaches for his iPhone. A new message, from him. 

**FuckGeo:** well dress up neatly, right?  
**PrincePol:** ofc! we oughta be stylish  
**PrincePol:** sunglasses :$  
**FuckGeo:** Pol.  
**FuckGeo:** Pol, dont.  
**PrincePol:** oh yes 

He types, and reaches for his sunglasses, giggling. She is his favourite accessory. She's faded purple, with a silver frame, and he found her in the streets years ago. Of course he had to adopt her. He even gave her a name: Nylla. When he thinks of this name, he sees the former owner of the sunglasses. An old, black prostitute, who wears colorful shawls instead of clothes, and has a voice like Whoopi Goldberg. Yes, Nylla is his guardian angel.  
Paul puts her down for a minute, and lays back on his bed. His Star Wars sheets are still wrinkly, but George's nice mango aroma still lingers there. As if he's laying there besides him.  
He hugs the covers, and takes a sniff. He tangles himself up in it, and starts to roll on the bed, dragging it with him. Suddenly, he opens his eyes, and gets serious.  
– I'm not normal – he murmurs, and quickly drops the covers on the floor.  
– TRUE, YOU'RE REALLY NOT! – Mike yells from the other room. The walls could be made of paper.  
– Shut up! – slaps Paul the wall (Roger Waters cries), and it nearly breaks.  
– But boys! – pipes in Mr. McCartney, and the little Paulie finally becomes absolutely devastated. He couldn't possibly have a more chatty family. He can't get rid of the thought of staying with them all summer.  
Instead he just closes his eyes, and imagines that Nylla leans on him, and starts to sing _Happy Day_. It's nevermind for her, anyway. If Paul had the amount of pot as this old prostitute, he surely wouldn't worry this much. But he hasn't. So he has to tell George the truth. There's no going back on plans. 

He quickly picks up his black Dell laptop. In his head, a thought, such as writing the concession, gets wings and starts to fly, and it will be as it will be. It's not necessarily needed to be said eye to eye; just be cool.  
He logs into his Facebook, but before he could click on George's profile, a notification catches his eye. A friend request.  
He clicks on it, and the profile of a skater boy appears.  
Plastered down hair, ear stretch and Vans stuff everywhere.  
– Oh – sighs Paul. – Eat me. For breakfast – he makes a face. But he accepts the request, maybe because no one used to accept his requests. – Hi and welcome to being my Facebook friend, Pete! – he smiles.  
Meanwhile this, he didn't had the chance to write to George. He has only one hope left. He glances at the clock, and it says it's quarter past nine.  
Paul boxes into the air, and runs to his wardrobe. Uniform up, jacket up, tie tied, phone in the pocket, hair smoothed out, Nylla up, let's catch the bus.  
He runs down the stairs, and he can see the bus through the window. He hasn't have the time to say goodbye, and absolutely not for listening to his dad's pick-up lines. Oh, but poor Mr. McCartney, he waited so long to give away his knowledge!  
Paul runs as fast as he can, and in the end, it's just seconds that he hasn't missed the route. The one called 176. The most oxidated in the whole town.  
He climbs up panting, and as he turns around, he can see him. George Harrison. The long, chocolate haired lad, whom everybody thought of the most quiet little angel in the whole world. He wears a beautiful, white shirt, attractive, grey jacket and that pretty, green tie. In the whole damned school, he is the one looking the best in the uniform. And Paul always loses his mind because of this. 

He walks to him, to the back of the rattling bus, and stands beside his seat. Geo, as he catches a glimpse of him, is already holding his head.  
– Don't sit next to me wearing _that!_ – he says, as he turns away, and Paul laughs.  
– Oh, come off it! – he answers as he plops down next to George. – I look good as fuck.  
– I bet you do – George ruffs, and just takes her off of him. He checks out the old sunglasses, but doesn't put her on. – I think this is instant tetanus – he whispers, and at this, Paul snatches her back, and hides her in his pocket, meanwhile he whispers, in the quietest voice he can mamage:  
– Don't worry, Nylla. He didn't mean it like that.  
The bus continues its journey, and with every stop, more and more kids sporting an uniform appear. The air is filled with the smell of the dreams and plans of the summer-hurrier students.  
Paul's phone suddenly beeps. He got another message, now from Richard.  
– Richie texted – he shows his phone's screen towards George, who looks away, grinning.  
– He looks positively edible – he whispers back, and Paul looks at the phone, where Richie poses naked to the eye.  
Paul's breath stops, and he drops the phone, with the screen down. Seeing this, George is unable to not laugh. He raises his hands, and giggles. – You're doing good.  
Paul hardly dares to pick the phone up from the dirty bus-floor. When he looks at the screen, his chest eases. His phone is alive and well. He takes a deep breath in, and says:  
– Thanks, Fortune!  
– Sometimes i can't decide if i should call a doctor or a priest – groans George with a worrying expression on his face, and Paul blushes a little. He sits back on his seat a bit calmer now.  
Now there are only a few stops left. This means he has only a few minutes left to tell George the truth. He hopes that George knows his secret for a long long time now, and he'll just smile. That nothing will change between them. That George will stay here, in Liverpool, with him.  
It's time. He has to tell him.  
– I have something – he starts –, i have to te... – he'd continue if his phone wouldn't beep, again. 

**RingoStarr:** i hope you like it! ;P  
**RingoStarr:** tell joj hell sleep with this sexgid in the same tent 

Richie and George will spend the summer in London, together.  
Paul is unbelievably jealous of Richard for this, but he can hate on him as much as he wants, he has to stay at home. With the church'schoir. He's a good boy. He can't just go to here and there. He can't miss the Prom. He can't claim George his.  
– What's he say? – ask Geo with a smile. His teeth are uneven, his lips are thin and his face is bony, but Paul loves him like this. No, he can't tell him. He wouldn't bear if George didn't smile at him anymore.  
– Oh, nothing. He just reminds you to you'll sleep in the same tent with him and his cock – saddens the young Paulie, and George starts to laugh.  
– He's an idiot – he wheezes. – You know, i'd be happier if you'd come, too. What a shame that you have that stupid choir stuff or whatnot – George says, but his words doesn't sound like Paul wants them to. George's surely not in love with him.  
– Or whatnot, yeah – he shrugs.  
– By the way, what were you saying? – George asks kindly.  
– Not important – Paul shakes his head.  
One more stop, and they have to get off the bus, to go to the church. They both go to a religious school. Tho, the only difference between their school and a normal school is that all the programs are being held in the church.  
The bus slows down, and the doors open. Every boy in the uniform, including them, leaves the engine. The weater is nice today. Not too warm, not too cold. The Sun paints the swirling clouds to purple and pink, while the light blue sky sparkles. The wind pets their faces sweetly, and warmness rises from the ground. Some kind of cheerfulness lightens the grey streets.  
– Hey! – slaps George Paul's shoulder. – I almost forgot that i have to go shopping a little – he points at a setout nearby.  
– By all means, i'll just wait here then – nods Paul, and he steps closer, while looking at George's round body parts, absolutely not noticeably, of course. Even the blind can see how terrible of a gazer Paul is.  
– Oh, these boys nowadays... – notes an old lady, who walks by. Paul hides his face, but preferably he'd hide in a channel. He wouldn't even come out again.  
Somehow he's able to make a fool of himself in every way, everytime.  
He just takes out his purple sunglasses, and puts her on. This way, maybe people wouldn't notice where he looks. Maybe Nylla can save him from himself.  
He leans on the wall with a long face, and tries not to think about what just happened. He's breathing in deeply, and he can almost feel Nylla's hand on his shoulder.  
Suddenly, he hears moaning from the little alley besides him. It's a girl's voice, and it's as though she's just... Paul can't contain his curiosity. He walks towards the alley with slow, wise steps, and he hears the girl's moaning louder with every step he takes.  
Paulie glues himself to the wall, and clinging to one of the gargoyles, he peeks out.  
She's blonde, and her skirt is nearly on her neck. In front of her, a guy swings himself. He has a leather jacket. His build is quite big, and his hair is longish, brown, sticking to his face. Paul can't take his eyes off him. The girl starts to scream louder, and the guy is growling, too. For a second, he looks at Paulie, and their eyes meet, even like this, too, through the glasses.  
Paul runs back to the shop the fastest he can, and the last thing he hears is a howl.  
He can't get that narrow, light brown pair of eyes out of his mind.  
– I'm here – he hears George's voice, who stuffs a breadstick in his face. – Did something happen? – he asks in his sweet tone, but Paul shakes his shoulders. When he's with George, he forgets everything, except for those brown eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Our Tumblrs:
> 
> http://moonlight-tie.tumblr.com
> 
> https://bohemianbeatle.tumblr.com


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